


Cross My Heart

by queerhazeleyes



Series: Breathe Me In, I'll Breathe You Out [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguments, Excessive Drinking, M/M, Reckless Behavior, Suicidal Tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerhazeleyes/pseuds/queerhazeleyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras bit his tongue. “Sorry. I just—some nights, I wonder if you’re trying to get yourself killed.”</p>
<p>Silence. Grantaire didn’t move a muscle.</p>
<p>“You aren’t, are you?” Enjolras asked, panic building. “Are you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in about equal measure by "Laughter Lines" by Bastille and the poem [the boy i love left me for a revolution](http://elisabethhewer.co.uk/post/53930689239) by one of my favorite poets.

When Grantaire stumbled into his apartment sometime after dawn, the first thing he saw was Enjolras asleep on the couch. He was curled up beneath a quilt Jehan had made, neck at an awkward angle like he’d fallen asleep sitting up, hair sticking up in all directions. Grantaire took in the scene and cursed quietly to himself.

Not quietly enough, it seemed (or maybe it was the front door closing) because Enjolras sat up, dislodging the blanket and knocking a book to the floor. “R?” he asked, eyes catching on Grantaire a second later. “What time is it?”

Grantaire looked at the clock on the wall and winced. “Ten to eight, just about,” 

“In the morning?” Enjolras rubbed at his eyes before looking back at Grantaire, less bleary-eyed than before. “Where the hell have you been?”

Grantaire shrugged and shuffled his feet. He was still standing in front of the door. “I dunno. Around. Got lost for a bit.” He ran a hand through his curls. “I need coffee.”

As he started for the small kitchen Enjolras leapt to his feet, kicking away the blanket when it tangled around his legs. “I was worried when you didn’t text me back.”

Grantaire pulled his phone out of his pocket, pushed a button. The screen stayed dark. “Battery must’ve died,” he said, stuffing it back in the pocket of his hoodie. “Sorry.” He pulled coffee from the freezer, dumped grounds into the coffee maker. Unable to locate the carafe, he grabbed a mug he was fairly certain was clean and shoved it into place.

“It’s all right. I’m just glad you’re okay.” Enjolras had sent a few texts, starting around midnight with a playful “Coming home soon, or are you kidnapped and murdered for spilling government secrets?” When that had gone unanswered after an hour, more had followed as he got increasingly worried. It wasn’t usually like Grantaire to not at least assure Enjolras he was okay when he stayed out all night—which was also not really a common occurrence. Add to that the unusual way Grantaire had been acting recently: drinking more, sleeping less, skipping more classes than he attended. Enjolras knew he wasn’t the only one who was concerned.

Grantaire studied Enjolras through bloodshot eyes. “You look tired,” he said.

“Didn’t get a lot of sleep,” Enjolras replied. Relief at Grantaire being home swept through him, making him sag with exhaustion. He shuffled forward and wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s middle, burying his face in his boyfriend’s hair. Then he inhaled and grimaced. “You reek of booze.”

Grantaire stiffened and shrugged out of the embrace. “Of course I do, Apollo. What did you think I’d been doing all night?” He swiped the mostly-full mug of coffee and took a gulp, placing Enjolras’ favorite mug to catch the slow drip still hissing from the coffee maker. The coffee burned on the way down his throat, but he ignored it.

Enjolras frowned. “But the bars closed hours ago.” He peered closely at Grantaire. “Are you still drunk?”

“Sadly, no, but not for lack of trying.” He searched for milk in the fridge and came up empty. “Found a guy at the last bar who invited me over for more drinking.”

“Just you?” Enjolras asked. His temper rose as he tried to keep his jealousy in check.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m a complete asshole _and_ an idiot. He was having a party; I just crashed.”

Enjolras bit his tongue. “Sorry. I just—some nights, I wonder if you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

Silence. Grantaire didn’t move a muscle.

“You aren’t, are you?” Enjolras asked, panic building. “ _Are you?_ ”

“Of course not, Apollo,” Grantaire deflected. He turned away as he said it, but not before Enjolras caught the muscle tic in his cheek.

“ _R_ ,” he snapped. Grantaire gave a full-body flinch, hunching in on himself like he’d been struck; Enjolras reeled his temper back in. “Grantaire, what’s wrong? This isn’t like you.”

Grantaire snorted. “This is exactly like me,” he responded, voice burning like acid. “I’m a fuck up, remember? Always have been, always will be. It’s not like anyone would really care.”

“I care, dumbass,” Enjolras replied hotly. “Joly cares. Bossuet, Musichetta, Bahorel, Eponine, Gavroche, Jehan, Combeferre—”

“Enough,” Grantaire interrupted. He sighed, some of the defensiveness going out of his posture. Turning off the coffee maker before the mug overflowed, he turned back to Enjolras. “I’m not actively trying to die,” he explained softly, eyes on his feet. “I’m just… not actively trying not to.”

“Grantaire—”

“Don’t scold, Enjolras,” he said. “You’re no better.”

Enjolras drew himself up, indignant. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted. 

“You and your revolution,” Grantaire explained. “Every protest, every rally, every riot, you take risks you would skin any of the others for. You don’t care if you get killed, as long as you go out in flames.” When he looked up to study Enjolras’ face again, there were tears in his eyes. “I keep thinking it’s a good thing youth suits you, because I don’t think you’ll live long enough to get laugh lines. Or, frown lines, more like.” Hands shaking, he set down his mug before he could drop it.

“I guess I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Enjolras admitted after a moment.

Grantaire shrugged and looked away; he seemed to be having trouble holding Enjolras’ gaze. “I don’t want to go to your funeral,” he said. “I’d rather see you old and going gray.”

“And I don’t want you to drink yourself into an early grave, or going off to strangers’ houses without letting your friends know where you are, putting yourself in danger.” He reached out hesitantly, relieved when Grantaire leaned into his touch instead of away, and carded his fingers through his boyfriend’s wild hair.

“I promise to stop if you will,” Grantaire joked weakly. 

Enjolras furrowed his brow. “You mean if I stop being careless with my life at rallies, you’ll get help with the drinking, and your depression? Maybe try therapy again?”

Grantaire tilted his head into Enjolras’ gentle touch, considering. “Okay.” He stuck out his right fist, pinky extended. “Promise?”

Enjolras gave him a look, a small smile curling the edges of his mouth. “Pinky swears?” he asked.

“I thought, given the circumstances, that ‘cross my heart and hope to die’ would be a little crass.” Grantaire’s tone was light but there was a fragile sort of hope in his eyes. Enjolras caught Grantaire’s offered pinky with his own.

“Pinky swear, then.”


End file.
